A Drawer Full of Letters
by Spockologist
Summary: Letters Watson wrote to Holmes and vice versa during the Hiatus. Rated T for angst. Non slash.
1. The first letter

**Just a small author's note before things get started. This will be written letter style and the dates and to who they are addressed will always be in the top corner. I tried to get things as close to the canon as possible, but I'm not sure everything is correct. This is my first attempt at angst, so hopefully it won't be too melodramatic or worse yet, not even touching. That would be pathetically sad. **

May 21, 1891.

My dear Holmes,

I feel rather foolish in writing out this letter to you as it is one you shall never read. But the idea of writing you letters as if you were still alive to receive them helps brighten the grief that shrouds so thickly around my soul.

It was Mary's idea originally as she knows how much I love to write. These letters will become a sort of journal like the one I kept after my service in the military. Bless her for caring so much about me. She helps more than she knows. But I worry, Holmes, about the strain I've put on her. I arrived home from the continent a broken man. I hate to think of that day. The train ride home brought back all the old ghosts I long thought I had forgotten. Loneliness, fear, nightmares. It all came rushing back in a flood that was impossible to stop.

The _Journal De Geneve _and the Reuter's Dispatch gave small accounts of your death. Little, unemotional scripts that barely scratch the surface of the grief your death has caused. The funeral was larger than you would have expected. Your brother Mycroft came along with all the Inspectors of Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade is a brave man, and while I've never seen him cry, I thought I heard his voice catch as he rose to say his few words of respect.

Mrs. Hudson has decided not to let out our old rooms as she says you and I were the finest tenants she ever had and she wants to keep the memories she has of you alive. The dear woman is heartbroken, but she still has the courage to smile brightly through the pain. She brought over some of her pastries last night, but I felt unable to face her and left Mary to visit with her in the parlor while I hid upstairs.

Your Baker Street Irregulars were some of the last to know of your death and they all came sniveling on my doorstep with words of condolences. Their faces were dirtier than normal with all the tears they'd mixed in with the grime of London and it took Mary's motherly touch to calm them all down before sending them off with a hug and scone each.

While the idea of dying is something I have difficulty accepting, the thought of your enthusiasm during our final days together does something to soothe my troubled conscience. If only I hadn't gone back to the lodge. If only you had told me your opinion on that letter being the trap that it was. But you seemed joyful in the hope of catching your "Napoleon of crime" and while he is imprisoned somewhere at the bottom of the falls, so are you. Your life seems too great a cost for such a small victory.

All of London seems so still. The crime life and adventurous alleys seem dull and commonplace without you charging up the cobblestones in pursuit of your latest find. I received word from some of your clients. The one that would most likely take your interest most was from Miss Irene Adler. She is divorced and living in America with a cousin who is an artist for a gallery in New York City. She expressed her deepest regrets and reminisced over being the only woman to outsmart you. Note, she wasn't boasting, it was more of a melancholy wish of how she would love to do it all again. I begin to see why you kept her picture on the mantle.

Summer is approaching. I can almost hear you pinning away about how the sunny weather makes one lazy. How no one likes to commit a crime when the weather is warm and the flowers are in bloom. You may have been right in this assumption as I have heard of no new murders or puzzles to solve. But then again, all of London seems unable to catch its breath and begin the cycle again after you left it.

I wish you luck on your journey to wherever it is you're headed. I am reminded of one of our late night discussions by the fire and this one was on the afterlife. You expressed no real conviction of a heaven, but I believe every good soul returns to their Maker and I hope you find rest in His arms.

This letter will now be tucked away somewhere in my desk drawer and perhaps I'll pull it out again to read or toss it into the fire. Maybe even more will follow suit. Whatever the case may be, I remain your faithful friend,

John Watson


	2. Letter to Mycroft

Diogenes Club, London.

June 17, 1891.

Mycroft-

I regret being unable to write to you sooner, but as it has been well over a month since my disappearance, I begin to feel safe again. Mind you, safe in the idea of being able to send out correspondences when necessary, but hardly secure in the fact that some of Moriarty's men are still lurking just out of reach. It's a peculiar feeling, being so cautious that even your own shadow makes you jump.

I am sorry that I startled you so suddenly that night at your club, but then again, knowing your own abilities of deduction, you probably recognized me under my disguise in an instant. I am grateful for your help and willingness to participate and want you to know that everything went as planned.

The boat ride was common affair and the dress provided kept me inconspicuous enough. Your 'safe house' as you call it is a splendid little thing and I have met the man you have entrusted with our secret. He's a peculiar little fellow isn't he? But I have faith in your judgment of character and know he will be faithful.

I don't know how long I'll stay here. Something makes me nervous to still be so close to London. I will most likely be gone within the week and leave note with your connections as to my whereabouts.

Am I doing the right thing, Mycroft? Part of me wishes I had never escaped those falls at all. It feels like lying. And while I never fully gave a falsehood, it doesn't all ring true either. I worry about what I'm doing to those I love. It is probably a good thing Mother and Father have passed on, I hate to think what this would have done to them. But what of those that are still living? Have I deceived them, do you think? I know I would be furious if someone did this to me.

And Watson? What on earth have I done to poor Watson? He's always been there and now I've up and deserted him. It's not a pleasant feeling. You may shrug it off as nothing, but you weren't there at Reichenbach. You didn't hear him calling my name or see the look of pure despair that flooded his face as he realized I was gone. His expression nearly made me change my mind but knowing the great opportunity Moriarty's death gave me, I made my escape. Was it selfish of me, do you think?

As you know, my escape from Reichenbach didn't go fully unnoticed. I have lain low, but I still keep waiting for another boulder to come down on my head. I feel more like a fugitive than a hero.

These emotional notions are unusual to me, Mycroft. You will surely have noticed and are bound to be wondering what has happened to me. You needn't worry; lack of sleep and constant anxiety are to blame. You saw how frazzled I was toward the end of Moriarty's reign. This is most likely just a relapse. I'll be fine.

I hate to be overcautious, but perhaps it would be best if you burned this letter after receiving it. I don't want it falling into the wrong hands. You will receive word from me when I have arrived at my new destination.

Watch out for Watson, will you, Mycroft? Don't be too overbearing, just… thoughtful. I see you already had the presence of mind to ask Mrs. Hudson for keeping my rooms. Many thanks to her and to you.

~Sherlock


	3. Stating the facts

To be hand delivered

June 30, 1891

Sherlock,

You do yourself an injustice by fretting over the matter. While I do understand your worry over your decision, I urge you to come to terms with the issue and accept it for what it is- opportunity. I am well aware of the emotional struggle these events have caused you, but when looked at in a clear and logical way, your fortunate escape from Reichenbach and humanity's gaze is nothing less than beneficial. You would be a fool to cast it aside.

Now, I can imagine your objections at this statement, but think of it, Sherlock! The spider has fallen from the web; all the carefully placed strands are falling to pieces and strangling those who fail to escape in time. While the world assumes your death, there are still some of Moriarty's sort that know the true case and they will stop at nothing to see their leader avenged, or at least themselves safe from your cunning mind. You returning at this time would spoil the whole plan. Thanks to your preparations, most of the villains have been captured. But knowing Moriarty's way of spreading poison, there will be a few that slip through our grasp. It is your responsibility to stay away as a sort of enticement to their vile minds. They will become too obsessed in their search to notice us in pursuit. Once they are captured and dealt with then and only then is it safe for your return.

I hate stating the facts to you so clearly, dear brother, but sometimes the coldness of truth sharpens the senses in a way that diplomatic fancies cannot achieve. You hate me for it; I can see it clearly in my mind's eye as clearly as you see this paper. The idea of playing idly away as bait does not bode well with you. But it is the only way in which we can bring the wrong to justice. Do not blame me for it, Sherlock. It was not I who decided to fake my death.

If you do not choose to stay away for this reason, then stay for this: if your friends were to know you were alive, they would become an asset. An advantage to the people you have tried so hard to capture. If your companions knew of your survival, granted they would be thrilled, it is to be expected, but do you think they could live with the secret? What would happen if someone came questioning them? Wouldn't it be better if they could honestly swear they thought you dead?

Perhaps that will help to ease your guilt. Think of your keeping away as a sort of guard for those you love. It is a hard statement, but necessary. I hope you do not think me forcing your hand, but I strongly implore you keep a safe distance until things have begun to settle. I will keep you posted on the various activities in and around London and will keep an eye on all your acquaintances.

You did well in telling Johnston where you were going. He reached me within a day of your departure and told me of your new whereabouts. My personal lackey will be hand delivering this note to you so that he can give eye to the new location. Invite him in, but do not offer him anything. Drink or money included. He has been instructed to take your response and your response only. I will reward him on his return.

I burned the letter as you advised and assume you will do the same. Either for safety or anger at its contents, that will be left up to you.

Mycroft Holmes


	4. Words of Apology

Somewhere in Southern France

July 7, 1891

Watson,

While I hardly believe words on paper are a sufficient apology, I know one is due and pen and ink are my only available option to cure the flood of words that rack my brain. I find it a rather ironic remedy as I have been more or less persuaded to cut off all contact with the world I knew and in as such, I cannot mail this letter to you. So while this insufficient apology will be placed permanently on the parchment, it will also stay permanently with me.

I don't like it, Watson. My disappearance at Reichenbach has altered things in a way I had not anticipated. If only I had broadened my outlook and thought more of the emotional effects than the logical ones. But my brother Mycroft has pressed upon the matter until I came to see the same conclusion as he. While not agreeable, it is a necessary evil that will in due time, be resolved.

Before I began this letter, I sent one to Mycroft, who as you have by now guessed, is well aware of my situation. It was a hateful letter full of angry words and a rather nasty defeat which my brother calls, "Coming to terms." I don't mean to be angry with Mycroft, but his cold manner of dealing with the issue vexed my soul as I realized he was right: this is all my fault.

It has never been easy for me to admit to being in the wrong, especially in situations I regard as my personal affairs, but Mycroft's persuasion in fact as well as age has forced me to it. I must come to accept the consequences of my actions and in this, apologize to you.

I didn't intend for you to be hurt in all this mess. At Reichenbach I was so tempted to return your calls, but something held me back and perhaps it was for the best. Mind you, not in the heavy blow this has caused, but better in the fact that with me gone, Moriarty has no power over you. I would hate for any type of violence to come upon you because of me, so in my staying away, the only pain is sentimental. It hardly seems fair as bruises heal, but heartbreak lasts much longer.

These words look so frail. Lacking any signs of life as they stare blankly back at me. It makes me recall the gift you have in weaving words and reminds me of the flippant way in which I regarded your work. I was inconsiderate and rude. Ignorant of what they really are. I wonder what sort of story you will create for this last chapter. A truly spectacular one I can imagine. I will have to send another letter to Mycroft in apology and ask for a copy.

It is a pitiful attempt at reconciliation, but hear me this, I wish to heaven I hadn't done the things I did. If I could go back through time and alter things, I would go back and find a way to change the course so that it did not end up causing such grief. But as my twist of fate is in deductive reasoning and not time machine mathematics, I am left with my decision. Perhaps Moriarty could have helped me create such a machine. What a paradox that would have been. Such thoughts make me smile, but I am making light.

Forgive me, Watson.

Holmes


	5. Looking Up

Mary~

I was called out on an emergency visit. I will pick up a loaf of bread on my way home.

I love you.

~John

July 18, 1891

Holmes,

I'm sorry I have not written you, but I did not want to bore you with my thrilling tales of the day to day life at the practice and so forth. I knew you took little interest in them while living and thought you would appreciate them even less now that you are dead. The months have been quiet. With nothing but the warm sunshine and married life to keep me occupied. On occasion I have been asked to help participate in a case or two and I have helped to some degree, but the deductive methods are not mine to claim and I tend to bow out as soon as convenient.

While I say life has been commonplace, it ceases to be so longer. In fact, I received news last night that has changed my life forever. Mary has long suspected and has finally announced that she is in the family way which means I now have the shocking responsibility of being a father. You may seem less than thrilled at this announcement, being one of limited family connections, but the joy of it all is one I have still failed to come down from.

And before you ask, I did not faint. Those stories the men at Scotland Yard spread about me having a weak constitution are greatly exaggerated. On the contrary, I could barely keep still I was so ecstatic. I had to jump from my chair, upsetting the tea tray in the process, hug Mary with all the love my soul possesses and then go into a stage of such joy that not even you and your cocaine highs could compete with.

Mary is just as excited as I am, though she seems rather nervous about the whole subject and I cannot blame her. I hardly feel prepared enough to take on such an enormous role as this and the reality of it all is beginning to sink in. After the celebration had died down, Mary asked me quietly that if the child is a boy if I would like to name him after you. I was stunned at the kindness of the gesture and taking her into my arms, replied that while my friend will always be missed, he was not too fond of his name himself and passing it on would be an injustice to both sides. She laughed and kissed me gently before retiring to bed with a thoughtful expression on her face.

She misses you too, Holmes. More than she is willing to admit. I know you two began as friends on the business level, but even that changed to a larger circle as the years have passed. She loves to reminisce over past memories. The Christmas party and the accident with the ham being one of her favorites. How you made her laugh when she saw your face at the charred remains of what was supposed to be a festive meal. She talks about the wedding too. And how you forgot the rings and had to run back to Baker Street to fetch them while the congregation sat and snickered at us. I think she is saddened by the thought that you will never be here to forge new memories on this new chapter of our lives. As much as I hate it too, I will have to make light for her sake and tell her it is probably a good thing as your influence on a child's young mind could hardly be beneficial.

What sort of advice would you give me if you were here? I am suddenly feeling dreadfully nervous as I think about the new weight I will have to carry. Perhaps you would not give any advice at all. Just sarcastic suggestions on how I never should have gotten married in the first place. I fear it is too late for those.

Mary is calling me; I must cut the letter short. I wonder what errand she is having me run now?

Watson


	6. Happy Once Again

Mary,

I hope you enjoy these blankets as much as I did. Now that my boys are all grown and moved away, there is no one left to tuck in at night. It makes me happy to think that someone else will be able to wrap these old quilts around their child with just as much love as I did.

Mrs. Hudson

August 3, 1891

Holmes,

Mary and I set about creating a nursery in the second bedroom today and I had no idea what an undertaking that would be. There are paint colors to consider and fabrics for the drapes to choose. The right basinet must be purchased and placed just so. The shelves must be filled with toys and supplies. Everything must be aired out and cleaned.

Mary had invited a few of her friends to help and soon a group of chattering women filled the house. I have never heard such talk! "Are you hoping for a boy, or a girl?" "Will the child be named after you?" "Oh what fun it will be when my little Tommy can come over and play…." I sorely missed for male companionship and escaped to my club for a few hours of solace.

You may think us premature in picking everything out so soon, but we are young and excited and the idea of a new life entering our home is a contagious one. And while Mary is only a few months along, the pregnancy is hard on her and she spends many a morning locked away in the bathroom. She says it is normal and that I shouldn't worry, that it will pass in time. But I _do_ worry. It's only natural that I should be concerned, but something else seems to be foreboding. A dark thought that I never like to let rise. She wants to get everything ready while she is still able and so we push on with the preparations with as much joy as we can muster. But in the quiet pauses, the worry starts to creep in again and I have to shove it away by pouring more enthusiasm into how much I love the little bib Mrs. Rawlings knitted.

I wish you were here. You would laugh as I told you the story of how Mary and I decided what color to paper the walls. You would be concerned when I told you that I know the difference between which outfit is for sleeping and which one is just for play. (They looked the exact same at first.) And you would agree with me on how startling the sudden influx of female intuition is and would readily consent to escaping for a moment's peace down at Simpson's.

But the hubbub of it all is not all bad. I enjoy seeing Mary's face light up as someone offers their congratulations. I like the smile she reserves just for me when she sees me stuck between two gossiping ladies with that polite, professional look I am known to wear. But I think it's the quiet moments I like best. When the din of the day has ceased and the night noises begin to whisper.

I am always fascinated by the way Mary brushes her hair out before bed and I stare; mesmerized as the color glints in the lamplight. She always laughs and taps my head with her fingers and asks me if I'm thinking of growing my hair out like a girl's. But she knows the real answer. She's beautiful. It takes everything I possess not to shout from the housetops and preen like a peacock as I announce to the world that this beautiful girl loves me back. Sometimes I can hardly believe she really is mine. I must be the luckiest man in the world.

Sleep easy tonight, old friend. Your Boswell is happy once again.

Watson


	7. Spreading The News

Diogenes club, London

August 7, 1891

Mycroft,

Are you in earnest? What shocking news your last letter brought me! How I wish to be there! Go to my old rooms and fetch my magnifying glass. I believe I left it on the mantle. Deliver it to Watson personally. Say it is a sort of gift and you're sure I would want him to have it. He can give it to the child. Children are inquisitive little things aren't they? They like to look at bugs and dirt and such. Or at least I did. The glass should come in handy.

Everything is well with them, I hope? Watson is an excellent physician and I'm sure he knows what he's doing. By Jove, Mycroft! You could have shown some more excitement in sending your letter. With the way you sounded one would think you were announcing one of those bland tea parties and not such a celebration as this!

I must write to Watson. I don't care what you think. This is too exciting a moment to let slip by.

In haste,

Sherlock

P.S.

You wouldn't be too furious with me if I mailed it would you? Tibet is lacking in excitement and I would just love to see what you would come up with as punishment with me halfway around the world.


	8. Congratulations

Telegram from Diogenes Club to Tibet, local post office, five shillings to be paid by receiver:

SHERLOCK, DON'T TRY ANYTHING. STOP. I HAVE MY METHODS. STOP. YOU WILL REGRET IT. STOP.

August 10, 1891

Watson,

Due to Mycroft's hasty response to my last letter, I will still be unable to send this note on to you. I was half jesting in my query, but Mycroft is not the joking type and I daresay he took it quite seriously. He even made me pay for postage if that tells you what kind of mood he's in. But who is he to dampen my spirits on such a joyous occasion as this? Watson, my dear fellow, may I offer my congratulations! What splendid circumstances have come your way! I hope it helps to ease the loss my disappearance has caused.

Is Mary well? I'm not sure how to pose such a question. I will assume she is as such a happy blessing is sure to please her. And what of you? I can only begin to imagine what your life is like. I think it's only fair that I remind you to eat during all the excitement as you more or less forced me into a chair and gave me such ultimatums while I was on a case to do the same.

Did you receive the present I asked Mycroft to deliver? I hope he did it in person. A note explaining it would be much too bothersome. I've never been one for sentimentality, but I can't help but smile when I imagine my magnifying glass in the hands of some toddling child. Do take the gift in the right way. I don't want you to be caught up in the past of the object. Instead, let it show you the way into a brand new life.

Mycroft told me of Mary's wish to name the child after me. My word, what a terrible mistake that would have been! I've never been too fond of my Christian name and passing it onto someone unsuspecting is downright cruel. Since you are not giving the child my namesake, am I still allowed to be the godfather? The title seems a bit too stuffy so perhaps I could be the uncle? Yes, yes, that would work perfectly. Uncles are always the fun ones. I had an Uncle Fredrick and he was a fine chap. He took me on my first tour of Scotland Yard.

I will write to Mycroft and ask him to keep in touch with all that is going on. I want to hear every bit of it! If only you were to write to me yourself. That would truly be the best thing that's happened to me since this whole dreadful thing began.

-Holmes


	9. Parting Gift

August 17, 1891

Holmes,

Your brother Mycroft came into my consulting room this morning. What a surprise that was. He seemed rather flustered, which was even more unusual given his character. He was holding a simple white box and he handed it to me with little ceremony and said he was sure you would want me to have it.

I must confess, these words startled me. My face must have given away my emotions because Mycroft hurried to amend by saying it wasn't anything overly sentimental, but just a small token, a reminder really, that he had found lying about his office. Unsure of what this entailed, I opened the box to see your magnifying glass inside. What a rise of emotion that caused. I quickly had to turn my face and hide a cough in my sleeve to swallow my tears.

My dear fellow, I don't know what to say. Mycroft rushed on by saying he heard about Mary and I's announcement and he wanted to give the glass as a sort of present to the baby. He expressed confidence that I would tell the unborn child all about my adventures with the great detective, but he wanted the small keepsake to be passed on as a sort of sentimental symbol.

When I arrived home, I showed Mary the present and she openly wept. (Happy tears she tells me, but she cries so often lately I can't be sure.) She is sure the baby will love your gift. She only wishes you were here to show the child how to use it.

The magnifying glass has been placed on the shelf in the nursery until the baby comes. Thank you, Holmes. It put a smile on both our faces.

Watson


	10. Intuition I

September 1, 1891

Holmes,

Do you remember that day when you came into my consulting-room before Reichenbach? You said you were using yourself up a bit too freely and I'm beginning to see what you meant. It's been a little over two weeks since my letter and I have my reasons for not writing. It's been one continuous pull since the middle of August.

It all started one morning while I was holding Mary's hair back so she could vomit her sick into the sink. She had been up since four with nausea, but I had not rolled out of bed until a little after five thirty after hearing her repeatedly gasping for air. She seemed so frail with the dark circles under her eyes that only stood out more with her pale complexion.

Seeing me half-awake and full of concern, she had tried to tell me that it was alright and to go back to bed, but she broke down sobbing in the middle of her sentence and clung to me weeping.

She's so afraid, Holmes. After managing to calm her down somewhat, she told me in broken words of how her mother died soon after she was born. She's been raised without a female figure and concepts such as motherhood are strange to her.

She's afraid of losing the child. She says something doesn't seem right. These words struck me more than anything. I know she will be an excellent mother. Of that I have no doubt. But it's her intuition that frightens me. I've seen some strange and remarkable things as my career as a doctor, but something I've always learned to trust is a woman's instinct. If she suspects something is amiss, she is most likely correct. I can think of many cases where a mother could tell me what was wrong with her child before I even had time to take out my stethoscope.

To make matters worse, I was in the middle of consoling Mary when a frantic knocking came from the door downstairs. Making my way down the stairs, I heard several other voices chiming in and pounding on the wood. "Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson it's an emergency!"

I opened the door to see several of the Baker Street Irregulars clamoring their way to be in front. A lanky boy with a shock of blonde hair succeeded in pushing past his comrades and announced with a bellow, "Doctor Watson! It's Wiggins it is! We was climbing the wall behind ol' Mrs. Smith's 'ouse and Wiggins done fell off and broke 'is arm!" The other voices chimed in and began shouting. "It's right bad, sir, right bad. Done broke bad we tell ye."

I heard the step creak behind me and saw Mary's red and tearstained face as she came to see what all the commotion was about. "Who is it, John?"

"Mrs. Watson!" the Irregulars cut in before I could speak. "It's Wiggins, he's hurt bad he is and we need Doctor Watson!"

Mary gave the ragtag group the first smile I'd seen in days and then turned to me. "John, you must go. I'll be all right." She said quickly as she saw me frown.

The Irregulars began pulling me toward the door and I barely had time to grab my hat and bag before the door was closed behind me.

~oo0oo~

_To be continued…._


	11. Intuition II

_The Irregulars began pulling me toward the door and I barely had time to grab my hat and bag before the door was closed behind me….._

September 1, 1891, continued…

Wiggins certainly was in a bad state and your Irregulars did well in coming for me. I could tell the boy had been crying, but upon our appearance, he quickly sniffed and wiped his nose, smearing dirt, tears and who knows what all over his face. His one arm was bent at an odd angle and it didn't look like he had moved since he had fallen.

But still, your Irregulars are a tough bunch and Wiggins greeted me bravely. "'Ello, Doctor." He said as I knelt beside him. "Come to play the medic have ye? I'm afraid Tommy's no good at playing doctor." One of the younger boys blushed and ducked his head at his comment and I noticed it to be little Tommy Jones, the one that's always followed me around asking questions about how to be a doctor. We might make a medical man of him yet.

"No, no playing here." I told him as I noted the rapidly swelling limb. "You'll have to come back to the house with me. I've got some ice and things for you there."

Wiggins gulped and nodded before struggling to get to his feet using only one arm. Taking pity on the boy, I scooped him up and made him lay the injured arm across his chest despite his protest to let him down. The other boys cheered at my 'heroic efforts' as one of them later called it and followed me laughing and teasing each other all the way back to my practice.

Mary opened the door for me and I quickly saw that the tears and worry had been masked by a happy smile as she welcomed the group into the house. She managed to herd all but Tommy out of the consulting room and into the kitchen with the promise of a freshly made biscuit and closed the door behind her without a word.

Tommy had watched this all with indifference, his large eyes taking in the rows of vials and things I had about the room but Wiggins had taken an immediate interest in Mary.

"Mrs. Watson is having a baby?" he asked me, a serious look on his face.

"Yes, that's right." I hummed a little while searching for something to begin mixing the plaster of Paris in.

"Me mum had a baby." Wiggins said looking directly at me, making me stop my search. "Pa said he died. I was too young to remember."

I felt myself growing cold and quickly tried to shrug it off as I finally found what I was looking for and began adding water to the mix.

Holmes, why are all these people so concerned with death? It feels like one big gaping hole of a topic that rips through everything and puts a damper on even the happiest of subjects. I hate it. I've seen more casualties and torn apart families than I care to remember. Even your own life now carries one of those wounds. You can't be spoken of or thought about without the ever looming topic of your death overhead.

I must have been mixing a little too hard because little Tommy suddenly peered over the counter by me and spoke quietly. "I think it's done, doctor."

And the boy was right; I gave a heavy sigh and turned towards my patient who was starting to look a very sickly shade of white. I've always hated this part of the treatment. Do you remember when Lestrade dislocated his shoulder and I had to have you help me put it back in place? He was brave enough not to cry, but I'll never forget that sudden yelp of pain as the bone fit back into the socket.

Wiggins was near fainting and I had forgotten any pain medications in my hurry and the plaster of Paris was quickly hardening so I simply had to grit my teeth and feign calmness while I gently guided the bone into a straight line.

I don't know which happened first, Wiggins's scream or the sound of little Tommy Jones hitting the floor as he collapsed behind me in a faint.

Perhaps Tommy should start looking into other professions.

_TBC…._

_I'm afraid I've got a very limited idea on medical practices of the time. Hopefully these are more or less correct. If not, I tried my best and google was a fail at providing information. _


	12. Intuition III

September 1, 1891, continued…

I left Wiggins asleep in the guest bedroom and headed down the stairs where the sounds of Mary's conversation could be heard. I paused on the final stair to hear her words. She was consoling a distraught Tommy who had been so shaken; he had had to eat five of Mary's homemade biscuits.

"There, it's alright. You don't need to cry."

A pitiful sniff and a mumbled reply.

"No, I'm sure you'll make a wonderful doctor. It just takes lots of practice, that's all. Don't give up."

I smiled at her motherly tone. She worries about being unable to raise a child, but I know she will do just fine.

Taking the final stair at a jump, I made myself known as I walked into the kitchen. The rest of the Irregulars had all gone their separate ways and the house had resumed its quiet, empty feeling. Tommy was sitting at the table, a biscuit in each hand as he listened to Mary continue to boost his spirits. Seeing me, he turned a deeply embarrassed shade of red and scooted off his chair saying he had better go.

"Would you like to take another biscuit with you?" Mary held out the plate and giving her a shy glance, Tommy took the offered treat and fairly fled out the door.

She seemed to have recovered from her breakdown earlier this morning, but I could still see the worried stress that filled her eyes as she silently began tidying up. I took one of the biscuits and watched her as she filled the sink with water and began to wash the dishes.

"You seemed taken with the Irregulars. I hope they weren't too much of a nuisance for you." I said, trying to make conversation.

"They were fine. Lovely children." She said rather stiffly.

"Do you want to talk about this morning?"

"No, John, I most certainly do not." She shut off the sink with some force and I took the hint to remain silent.

We sat some time in silence; only the sound of her rinsing dishes could be heard. I was thinking of reaching for another biscuit when she violently put the last dish down and stomped out of the room, leaving me frozen in my chair.

I decided to give her some time with whatever this new problem was and after spending a good hour in my study, I walked quietly up the stairs, mentally preparing myself on how to address this new difficulty.

I turned towards the bedroom, but noticed the guest bedroom door slightly ajar. I crept closer and peered in. The image inside both warmed my heart and broke it.

Mary was singing softly as she stroked the hair back from the peacefully sleeping Irregular. She was crying while she sang and I had to force myself to look away and not interfere with her private moment. Such an interference would only make it worse.

I walked heavily down the stairs and back into my study where I sat and penned this letter to you. This was a little over two weeks ago and those, my dear Holmes, are the facts. What do you make of them?

Watson


	13. Touching Bases

Doctor Watson,

It has been some time since your last published story and while we do respect the need for grieving after Mr. Sherlock Holmes' death, we are interested in you continuing your efforts in publishing the last few accounts of the great detective. We here at Strand Magazine feel your written works would not be complete without the rest of your collection and we are eagerly looking forward to your next submission.

We would like to see the next install printed by the end of the month, but if these terms are not suitable, we can extend the deadline to accommodate your needs.

Editor in Chief,

Arthur Conan Doyle

September 21, 1891

Mycroft,

Tibet is a fascinating place. I am beginning to grasp the culture and even pieces of the language but it's the food that is so difficult. It tastes nothing like Mrs. Hudson's cooking and I often find myself longing for a good kidney pie now and then. Truth be told, I am beginning to miss London.

With fall approaching, the longing for the damp chill of frosty mornings and the sight of the leaves as they fall against the sidewalk is one I can hardly stand. I miss the fog and the noise and yes, even the pollution and grime. I feel alienated from my homeland. Like a stranger I wander from place to place seeing much and feeling little.

If only I could have contact with my old life once again! I have been debating this question again and again and the solution to it was so absurdly simple, it is a wonder I had not noticed it before. While Sherlock Holmes may be dead, his mind most certainly is not. News from the detective would be shocking, but word to England from another name would hardly be considered noteworthy.

I have decided to take up a pseudonym and with it write to London to tell her all about my life abroad in Tibet. I feel justified in touching bases in this manner and can only hope you do not object. And even if you do, it would do you little good as my mind is already made up and there is very little that could change it.

It will be trivial things I write about, nothing too serious as to give myself away. Think of it as another one of my monographs. What do you think of the name Sigerson?

Sherlock


	14. Picking Up The Pen

September 25, 1891

Holmes,

I am supposed to be writing the next installment on my Strand stories, but as I sit here surrounded by notes and memories, the task seems a bit too daunting, if not, painful. The idea of continuing on with the stories without you there to criticize their romantic outlooks makes the project seem void and pointless.

Part of me likes looking back and reliving all the adventures we had together. But the other part shies away and never wants to pick up the pen again. The story I have in mind to write today is the one involving Mr. Homer Angel. What a pretty little puzzle that was. I will never forget your audacity in reaching for your riding crop as if to punish Mr. Windibank yourself.

These memories make me smile and add a certain lightness to my soul. Perhaps they will end up being therapeutic; like the journal I kept after my return from Afghanistan. I seem to fancy that in sharing these adventures with others, they too will have an appreciation for you and your profession.

Do they receive Strand subscriptions in the afterlife? The idea of winged angels talking over the headlines on the gold paved streets of heaven seems a bit too whimsical, even for my tastes. But wherever you are, I'm sure you will catch word of my latest story and will be able to critique it from there.

Mary likes to read my stories. Having been a governess at one time or another, she has great talent for editing and going through the errors I have little patience for fixing. I remember the first time I ever attempted to put my feelings for her into written verse. She loved the sentiment and kept it in her dressing table drawer, but it wasn't until some months after we were married did she take it out again and show me the rather embarrassing misspellings.

I wonder if she would like to play editor for me again. I'm not sure I dare ask her after all the worry she already has on her. She did apologize for her abrupt matter the other day. She blamed it on exhaustion and not feeling well, but the truth of the matter lies a bit deeper than that.

Her worry about her upcoming role in motherhood is what plagues her mind the most. I've seen her talking to her neighbors and friends who have children about what to expect. The other day I even caught her questioning the milkman about his wife's recent delivery.

But I do like the nights we used to spend together, curled up on the settee with my arm around her shoulder as I read my latest manuscripts by the fire. She always knows the right places to laugh and the best moments to act somber. I like the way she bites her bottom lip while thinking as the words pour off the page. It makes me think that perhaps my writing has some type of merit to it after all.

Wish me luck, Holmes.

Watson


	15. Another Charade

October 7, 1891

Mycroft,

I dyed my hair. Heaven help me, now I'm blonde. You should have heard me shout when I looked into the mirror. Mother would have told me that my name's meaning has come true at last. Fair haired indeed. I wish I could have kept my natural dark colour, but in my last letter, I told you of my plans to change my name and changing my appearance is part of that. I look and feel like a fool.

I decided to see if I could channel a bit of Watson's creative ability to see what kind of a character I could create for myself. I am now Sigerson; a very blonde Norwegian with a pathetic accent and a rapidly fading enthusiasm for this whole ordeal. But perhaps that was a bit too sarcastic. Let me try again. My name is Sigerson Christensen and I am a Norwegian explorer out to tour the world and write articles on my findings. I am a bachelor in my mid-thirties and inherited the money to travel from my dead uncle. I have a very delicate constitution and spend the majority of my time visiting the health gurus and shamans that are so ubiquitous in this part of the world that they put London's various apothecaries to shame.

If I may say so myself, this Sigerson fellow is a bit of a wet blanket. He feels like the complete opposite of my own self and his every flaw is exaggerated just to hide my own personality. Where I am outgoing and forward, he is cowardly and weak. The subjects I find incredibly dull he finds absolutely fascinating. I have to constantly remind myself that Sigerson is just a character. Another mask to hide behind while the storm rages. I have played many a charade during my career as a consulting detective. This one is no different.

I suppose I ought to go clean up the mess I made in the sink before they dye sets. If anyone asks, Sherlock Holmes is in his room sulking and Sigerson is out pestering the natives on the best roots to use for bellyaches.

Sherlock


	16. Repeated Warning

_A/N: Tapd0g- I've always pictured Holmes with dark hair and I think there is a reference in there somewhere. Now don't quote me on this! I need to review my canon as well so just consider it a matter of preference. Thank you very much for reading! I'm glad you are enjoying the series. _

October 15, 1891

Sherlock,

While I would be lying if I told you I did not find your last letter amusing, I will put aside such merriment to address your situation. Perfer et obdura, dolor hic tibi proderit olim.* Remember that, Sherlock. I didn't spend hours studying with you for you to forget such wise counsel.

I'm afraid I have been rather slow in responding to your letters. I have been quite busy with papers and documents and things that would quickly lose your interest so I will not mention them here. But my life has not been all politics. I have been keeping a watchful eye on your friend Doctor Watson through my various sources and so far the reports have all been elementary.

There was a slight mishap with one of your Irregulars, but the good doctor set him right and as far as I can tell, all has been fine sailing. Mrs. Watson seems healthy, but pensive but such things are to be expected for a first time couple. The doctor is wearing himself thin with his practice in Kensington and were it not for your worry over your friends, I would humor you with describing how nervous he seems to be. I daresay one could deduce the look of a soon-to-be-father no easier than if the man was wearing a sign announcing the news.

Now, Sherlock. You know that I am not one to write letters just to exchange pleasantries and share the neighborhood gossip. There is a reason for my letter and it is a most serious one. Thanks to you, Inspector Lestrade was able to capture most of Moriarty's men. It was expected that a few would escape and while one cannot delay the inevitable, one still wishes to put it off for as long as possible. Perhaps our hopes were set too high. My sources have notified me that three of Moriarty's most notorious members are still lurking the London streets.

They were the ones you most wished captured, and there is still time to see them receive justice, but until then I want to repeat my admonition for you to stay away. It was a wise thing you did in changing your appearance. It did not occur to me that these men would surely recognize your face. I commend you on your decision to disguise yourself, however emotionally excruciating it may be.

Stay hidden and stay safe. Those are the most important words I can say to you at this time. I will contact you the next time I am notified as to the whereabouts of Moriarty's infamous trio.

Best wishes to you,

Mycroft

_*Yep, I'm a Latin nerd. Here's the translation: "Be patient and tough; someday this pain will be useful to you." _


	17. In Sickness and In Health

Mary,

I stopped by your home earlier this afternoon, but you were not at home. I gave the bread and jam to your maid and asked her to give you this note also. I hope Doctor Watson's health improves and that you and the baby continue to stay well. Don't hesitate to ask for help, I'm always willing to lend a hand.

Mrs. Hudson

November 17, 1891

Dear Holmes,

How dreadfully dull this rainy weather is. It does not even have the presence of mind to slash against the windows and howl down the chimney. It just…falls. Pathetic little drops of water that drizzle down the collar and leave inconvenient puddles on the sidewalks. But I have not been your friend for so many years to talk about petty things like the weather.

I suppose it's my quixotic mindset so long dulled under foul weather and poor health that has finally turned me to such trivial conversation topics. The idea of you here to talk about such things as the weather is comforting, amusing even to my tired brain. Before you become overly concerned in my lethargic musings, I will console your mind with the statement that I am doing better. There, you can sit back in your chair and breathe easily again. Perhaps you should open a window also, knowing you, you are most likely smoking a pipe while reading this and breathing quickly does little to soothe the amount of smoke in the air.

I am beginning to better appreciate the black moods you were so inclined to fall into during our friendship. Being stuck here at home has made me feel like nothing more than an invalid to be doted on. The lack of excitement has left me with one emotion: complete and utter boredom. But the sickness has not been too bad. I imagine I must have caught it from one of the numerous patients that file in and out of my practice. Such is the curse of choosing medicine as a profession. I do hope Anstruther is doing well. After falling ill, I had to ask him to watch my practice for me.

Mary has been doing better. I feel guilty for having taken sick; she has had to wait on me. But she does it with a loving smile and a gentle touch so playing patient is not all bad. The pregnancy has moved along steadily. Her belly is now swollen to reveal a motherly roundness to her figure. She finds it not at all flattering but I think it charming. Perhaps our worry was premature. She seems perfectly fine now. In fact, she is smiling at me now. She wants me to put the pen down and get some rest. But I am entirely at ease with my place here on the settee. It is much better than the bed I have been confined to for the past two weeks.

The illness was not pleasant. But then again, brain fever never is. Anstruther visited me one morning to find me shakily filling out prescriptions. He promptly deemed me unfit to work and ordered me home to rest. But being foolishly stubborn, I ignored his admonishing and proceeded with work. I told myself I was just tired from the strain of Mary's health and that taking a day off would be considered an unnecessary luxury. I have a family took look after, if I took a holiday, who would pay the bills?

And so I doggedly continued on till a little past two 'o clock. The practice was abnormally busy and I was only just able to close my door and sit down to a late lunch. I was feeling rather dizzy, (blaming it on lack of food) but I was catching up on some medical files whose print was unexplainably blurry.

I do remember dropping the papers and someone rapping on the office door, but things grow foggy after that. How I got home and into bed remains a mystery. The feeling of cold cloth and hushed voices is also present, but these past few weeks have been a blur.

I have just recently learned that my hallucinations included something akin to that terrible day at Reichenbach Falls. Mary says my cries were heart wrenching. I feel rather embarrassed at my behavior, even if it can be easily blamed on fever. I don't like to show weakness, Holmes. Weakness gives the enemy opportunity, and while I hardly consider Mary or anyone else an opposition, my experiences in Afghanistan have taught me never to show the limitations one possesses.

It is a peculiar feeling, knowing how close I came to death. Of course, it is only reminiscent of my fever after my war injury, but it is nonetheless eerie in its message. I could have died. If I died, I could now be spending time with you among the angels. (This is of course, assuming that you have been granted wings and not horns and that I receive the same.) Part of me longs for that. To see you again. But then who would look after Mary and our unborn child? Who would continue publishing the stories of the great detective and his grand adventures? It is probably for the best that I stay here on earth. My time is not yet.

But I do not want to dwell on such thoughts. Such ideas just add melancholy and deep musings to my already addled brain. It is sufficient to say that I am alive thanks to many prayers and sweet Mary's watchful eye. Mary wishes me to rest now. She has that stern look in her eyes and is threatening to take away my pen as she says I, "look tired." Some battles are better left unfought. She is the doctor now and I am but a patient. To object would mean sure punishment.

~Watson

P.S.

Ha! See what one kiss can do? You did always tease me for my suave way with ladies. Though I suppose I must admit that that one kiss was also coupled with much pleading and the vehement pledge that I will sleep after this. I just couldn't resist adding one more thought. Granted you are in heaven and were given wings, I am filled with a mischievous curiosity to imagine what the great detective looks like with such contraptions on his shoulders. Are they feathery or similar to a fairy's wings? I did always describe your features as hawk like. Perhaps feathers would best suit your aquiline appearance. I suppose I will have to sleep on this. Mary is taking the pen from me and refuses to listen to my pleas for her to sketch a picture of you in angel wings. She is most unfair.


	18. Best Served Cold

Official Police Report of Scotland Yard:

A Doctor Watson and wife were accosted the night of the twelfth while in their home in Kensington. Police Inspector Lestrade was the first man to arrive at the scene. (See page 3 for details on his report). The motive behind the assault is uncertain, though an investigation is now underway. No one was seriously injured. The couple will be called to give a further report on the crime at a later date, (see page 7)….

December 14, 1891

Sherlock,

I do not wish to alarm you, but it appears your enemies long silent have made a move at last. Revenge is their motive now, and it was to the good doctor's home that the plan was carried out. We are unsure as to which of the three committed the evil deed, but it could very well have been a joint act. As expected, they have hidden themselves again and are most likely lurking nearby in case someone gets too close and has to be dealt with.

The doctor and Mrs. Watson are fine, though shaken. I heard from the police reports that Mrs. Watson herself hindered the attacker by smashing a water pitcher over the man's head. The doctor has certainly married himself a remarkable woman.

While revenge is the most plausible, are there any other motives you can think of for their attacking the Watsons? Moriarty was never one to deal unreasonably and I would believe his men to be of the same character. There must be some other reason for their assault? Perhaps they have discovered your secret. Assuming they believe Doctor Watson to be aware of your existence, they must have gone to his home in pursuit of answers as to your whereabouts.

I suggest you lie low for a few days, Sherlock. Don't write to me until things here have blown over. I know you will be impatient for more information, but please do not do anything impulsive. It may lead to further harm.

Mycroft


	19. Flood of Telegrams

December 21, 1891

Telegram to Diogenes Club, London:

How dare you assume me to be impulsive. STOP. I am coming home. STOP. Nothing you can say will stop me. STOP. Reasons for assault unsure. STOP. I don't want Scotland Yard on the case. STOP. Keep Watson hidden. STOP. Mother and child alright? STOP.

Telegram to local post office, Tibet:

You will NOT be coming home. STOP. I will detain you in all ways possible. STOP. Possible trap awaits you. STOP. Mother and child are in good hands. STOP. Scotland Yard is capable, you stay out of this. STOP. All will be ruined if you return. STOP.

Telegram to Diogenes Club, London:

They need me! STOP. I refuse to be left out of this. STOP. My life is nothing. STOP. What good am I hiding out here like a coward? STOP. Watson would do the same for me. STOP. You are too cold hearted. STOP. Logic and games are useless. STOP.

Telegram to local post office, Tibet:

Watson would not rush in like a fool. STOP. Logic and games are the only way to keep them safe. STOP. To come now would jeopardize them further. STOP. I insist you keep away. STOP.

Telegram to Diogenes Club, London:

Mycroft, I can't. STOP. This is my only friend and his wife we are talking about. STOP. Should be home by Christmas. STOP.

Telegram to local post office, Tibet:

Do not come home! STOP. Sherlock, I'm warning you. STOP.

….

Telegram to local post office, Tibet:

SHERLOCK! STOP.


	20. Losing Hope

December 25, 1891

Holmes,

It's a rather melancholy holiday this year. The festive spirit has been somewhat dampened after the events a little less than two weeks ago. With your death, I thought certain things would be secure. I never imagined your enemies coming after my family. But ignorance is bliss as the saying goes and reality is a road no one wishes to travel on. No man can live long in denial and it appears my time is up.

It all happened so quickly. We had little time to process the whole ordeal before Mary, overcome with the shock, took sick and is now too weak to leave her bed. The doctor came by to visit three days ago and has told us news that makes me ill to dwell on. Because of that man, that devil who entered our home uninvited and caused such upheaval and terror, both mother and child are in danger. I can't lose them, Holmes! Death has had too much to say in my lifetime and I won't allow it another word.

It feels like everything I hold dear is on the line. One small gust of wind and the fragile existence I call life is shattered and left for nothing. I can't stand idly by and watch the ones I love fade away. Your dear brother Mycroft even seems to be affected. I saw him approach the house looking wild eyed over his shoulder and up at the windows before composing himself enough to knock. Bless his soul, he said he had just come by for a visit to see how we were fairing and wishing us a Happy Christmas. His visit did include a tour of the house and several closed closet doors he insisted on looking in, but as peculiar as his behavior may be, I do not blame him. Grief is enough to drive anyone mad.

The bedside of a sick loved one is a place I have always found ironic for reflection. But try as we might, the whimsical mind seems best at work when the threat of death looms ever closer. How beautiful she looks. She has always been beautiful. From the first day I saw her I knew I was seeing something almost otherworldly. Even flushed with fever and pale with exhaustion she has never been less stunning. I do not find myself her equal. I married far above myself and it is a blessing I am thankful for every day. What she ever saw in me, a limping man, a wounded doctor, is something I will never be able to deduce.

The gentle rise and fall of her breaths are both comforting and disconcerting. I catch myself counting each chest rise until it is almost an obsession. One slight pause in the rhythm and I leap from my chair sure it is to be her last only to hear the process begin over again. This is no way to live. I don't want my last memories of her to be of me clutching at vain hopes and out of reach possibilities as she slips slowly through my fingers.

Prayer is an ever constant companion in these trying times. I have never felt my pleas be more heartfelt, my desires more pure. Let her live! She is all I have in this world.

God give me strength. Heaven knows I need it.

Watson


	21. Mission Failed

December 27, 1891

Mycroft,

I couldn't do it. I stood there, luggage in hand, all ready to defy your rules and return home, but I froze. Just…stopped. How could I return home, regardless of the danger, just to inform Watson of my betrayal and expect things to be as they were before? I can't tell him the truth, Mycroft. Not when things are already so heavy upon him.

I must have looked so pitiful. My world seemed to crash around me and before I knew it, I was sobbing helplessly as I turned back up the dusty road to the place I now call home. The people here are amiable enough, but nothing like the friend I had in Watson. A kind elderly woman has taken to cleaning my flat twice a week for a small fee and she cooks for me occasionally. She noticed right away that something was wrong and set about trying to comfort me as best she could in a broken mixture of English with Tibetan thrown in.

As heartfelt as her words may have been, they left no impression on me as being consoled to the name of, "Mr. Christensen" has no real meaning in it. Sigerson Christensen has no problems. He doesn't live the life I have and knows absolutely nothing about what I gave up to give his presence voice.

Don't worry, brother, Sherlock Holmes will stay away. He is nothing but a figment of the mind now. A name that will be long forgotten in a trail of deceit and regretful decisions.

S.H


	22. Bated Breath

January 3, 1892

Mary,

You are sleeping now. I can't bear the news I must bring you when you wake. Your peaceful countenance will soon be shattered with the heavy toll the words convey. But until then, sleep my dear; you will need all the rest you can obtain.

The baby didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Mary. The doctor says that you were too weak to support the two of you. Don't blame yourself, it wasn't your fault. I'm just grateful you're still here with me. I'll try to be strong for the both of us, I promise.

She came too early. She was so small. I had no idea infants could be so tiny. You are expecting to hold her when you wake, but Mary, she slipped away while you were resting. I was holding her in my arms and watching as her eyes closed and her limbs slowly grew still. There was nothing I could do.

We will still name her; such a beautiful gift from God deserves a name. Will it be after your mother? Edith is a wonderful name, but it doesn't seem to fit our little girl. Annabelle is a fine name too. It means grace, and through God's grace you are still here with me. It is heart wrenching that the little baby could not be with us too.

But perhaps God has a different plan for our little girl. Such an angel as she could not be away from God for long. He has called her back to Him once more. We will see her again, don't worry. Waiting with open arms to welcome us back into God's rest when our time on earth is through.

You're stirring, oh Mary, not so soon! I do not want to be the one to tell you that your child is gone. You must be brave, I cannot do this alone.

Stay with me, Mary.

John


	23. Conflicting Emotions

January 6, 1892

Holmes,

A happy birthday to you, old fellow, I hope you count it as another year wiser and not just one step closer to old age and senility as your sarcastic sense of humor was wont to do. I'm afraid I'm not in a festive mood today, circumstances require it otherwise, but my feelings towards wishing you a happy birthday are no less sincere.

Please do not consider my rather abrupt words as an affront to your character, things have been rather hard lately and keeping emotions in check seems to be the only way to keep the flood of everything from drowning me. I do not wish to burden you with my troubles, especially on such an occasion as this, but Holmes; I have run out of options. I have no one else to turn to.

While I have never been one to hold myself in a boastful light, I have long prided myself on my abilities in the medical profession and my zealous effort in saving lives. Such a skill was useful to me in the army and in my practice but I do not see its worth in my own life.

What good am I if I could only stand there like a fool and watch while my infant child slipped from my fingers and into the afterlife beyond? I did nothing, Holmes, just watched helplessly as the little body refused to breathe. I was frozen, I couldn't think, couldn't act. How I regret my incompetence now.

It is a difficult task to be the one to tell your wife that her firstborn has died. One I wouldn't wish on even my worst of enemies. While comforting her to the best of my abilities and telling her that the child's death was in no way her fault, I couldn't help harboring the thoughts that I was the one to cause the loss.

Mary wasn't even well enough to attend the funeral. Mrs. Hudson came to stay with her while I stood over the tiny casket in the churchyard and the pastor read the death rites.

I did not consider that this would be the life I would lead. Things were supposed to be happy for Mary and I, but now it feels as if there is hardly any purpose left at all. I am angry with myself and feeling bitter with God. Why would he do this to me, Holmes? I am grateful for His allowing Mary to be here, but part of me feels resentful in His dealings. I am trying to keep penitent, but the nagging idea of an unjust God is one I struggle with daily.

Watch over my little girl, will you, friend? Heaven is a big place for such a small angel as she.

And perhaps…if you see God, you would ask Him to be patient with me? I am still feeling too much pain to feel worthy enough to be forgiven.

Watson


	24. Stern Reprimand

January 8, 1892

Sherlock,

You will forgive me for not writing you on your birthday, the date slipped my mind and I have only just now had the opportunity to wish you well. I am sorry that you are spending such an occasion by yourself, but hopefully the stacks of newsprint bearing news from home I have sent along with this letter will cheer you up.

I am hoping you will respond to this letter because your vow of silence has been worrisome not to mention childish. I know you feel guilt over your decision to flee England, but keeping hidden from your only confidant is no way to ease your conscience. Please put aside any feelings of resentment you may have and pen a response to me. You have me worried, Sherlock. I don't like having you so far away any more than you do.

It is a risk in telling you this, but I have grave news. Please don't become upset and rush off on some foolish notion, you are too old for that. I spent more of my childhood in chasing you down than I would have liked so please stay where you are.

Mrs. Watson health has been a large concern over the past few weeks due to her pregnancy and the shock of the attack on their home, but miraculously she pulled through the illness only to deliver her child too early. The infant lived less than four hours.

I did not make my presence known, but I did attend the funeral of the baby. Doctor Watson seemed so oblivious to his surroundings that I doubt my being there would have made a difference.

I trust you are capable enough to receive this message with maturity. I do not want to hear of you sinking yourself into a depression over this ordeal or running off on the next transport out of Tibet. What I do want is to receive a letter from you telling me your whereabouts and current conditions.

Mycroft


	25. Paradox

January 21, 1892

Dear Mr. Mycroft Holmes,

It was a pleasant surprise to receive a letter from one of the readers of my work and I am deeply honored by your correspondence. I'm afraid Tibet is a bit of a wild place and to have word from a respectable Englishman such as yourself is certainly a welcome relief to the somewhat brutal life style I now endure.

I do have one thing to mention, however. You addressed the letter to a "Sherlock Holmes." If you will recall, Mr. Holmes has chosen another life style and would prefer it if people would oblige him in his decision. He answers to nothing but "Sigerson" now and he is not likely to respond if you call him otherwise.

I have seen to it that he is well taken care of and he will continue to live a rather distant life for the next little while as his presence is needed in aiding me with my research.

He thanks you for your concern on his behalf, and I will continue to be the best of companions to the former detective. We offer our deepest regrets on being unable to be there with you in London, but as you have often told Mr. Holmes, _"Work is the best antidote to sorrow" _and that is what Mr. Holmes and I plan on taking to heart.

Best wishes from Tibet,

Mr. Sigerson Christensen


	26. Brotherly Reproach

January 30, 1892

Sherlock,

Your actions are nothing less than childish. I highly suggest you rethink your behavior. As to this "Sigerson" business, I understand the need to hide, but I do not think another charade in life is the solution. I will not be addressing you in any other form but your Christian name and that is a fact you might as well get used to.

I've seen the temper tantrums you used to throw as a child and I can wait them out for as long as you keep going. While I am less than pleased with your reaction to life's events, I am highly disappointed that you moved locations without informing me. Mother's last words to me were that I should protect you, but how can I do my job if my younger brother shoves away all chances of support? I had to find out from my source in Tibet that you had vanished. How do you think that made me feel, Sherlock? I thought I'd lost you.

It was only until I received word from my connection that you had not been harmed, but had simply stormed off to Lhassa. I hope you had considerable time to think during your flight. This letter will be forwarded to your current address, whatever it might be, and I expect to be informed as to your new location either by you or someone else; so do not think you can hide from me.

I suppose you are feeling a bit too resentful to appreciate these words, but Sherlock, I do care about you. I know sentimentality has never been something passed along the Holmes family line, but when it comes down to it, I would do anything to protect you. I understand your anger and know it will take time to heal but in the quiet hours of the night when grief is about to overtake you, know that I am here and willing to listen.

Mycroft


	27. Confession

February 3, 1892

Watson,

In the past it has always been the case that I turn to you for advice and reassurance and today is no different. I have made a horrible mistake. But I do not want you to focus on me. I have never been one to express emotion and comforting has never been my forte, but having just been made aware of your misfortune, I want to try my best to offer my condolences.

My dear fellow, are you alright? Your life is overflowing with buffets and blows and I'm afraid this one might have gotten the best of you. My disappearance must have been hard enough, but I hardly consider myself consequential in your existence. You can move on without me, that's what friends do after the games have been played and the toys put away; but family is of an entirely different matter.

One can't just carry on after such a tragedy. I was aware of Mary's health, but losing the child was entirely unexpected. I doubt either of you are coping well. Please accept my deepest apologies. I should have been there with you.

Mycroft was the one to tell me of the infant's death. We have had a bit of a falling out, you see so I do not expect to be informed of the news in London for quite some time. Both of us are too stubborn for our own good. He is always telling me what to do or where to stay and I frankly do not care for it. I thought I had silenced him for good when I wrote to him under my new name, Sigerson, but he had the audacity to reprimand me like a child and then had to include the promise he made to mother on her death bed about taking care of me.

I am a grown man; I can take care of myself. That vow was made years ago and if mother could only see me now she would know I am well enough to be on my own. Mycroft holds that responsibility like it contains some great power. He threatens me with it constantly and I find it more of a nuisance than a brotherly alliance.

In my spite, I went to Lhassa without informing Mycroft. I had been planning to make the trip for some time and it seemed the perfect escape: a new hideaway and a stab of revenge for over protective brother mine. Mycroft was less than pleased, but I am not overly concerned with his temperaments.

I doubt you would be very pleased with me, Watson. I haven't been this resentful for a long time. But things change; people change and I have little choice but to change along with it. Considering how you would frown upon my decision, I am beginning to regret my hasty actions towards Mycroft. But surely you would understand? I am far away from home and every source of familiarity I have known has been taken from me.

I know that is not much of an excuse, but for the moment, it is something I will hide behind. I wish you well, Watson. I hope that when I write to you again, I will be a better brother, person and friend.

Holmes


	28. A Friend In Need

February 17, 1892

Helen,

It has been sometime since I have written you and I hope all finds you well. My health has been a matter of concern over the past few months and it appears that the deepest fear a mother could ever possess has been fulfilled. I remember speaking to you about it the last time we spoke and I regret to tell you the child didn't make it. Don't worry for me, Helen; I am doing much better now. The grief is still there, raw and on the surface, but I must get along as best I can.

It took quite a number weeks for me to recover from the shock, but the initial feelings have worn down to a deep aching within my heart that pangs every time I enter the empty nursery and see the blanket you have knit lying useless on the rocker. I have begun to take little walks around the neighborhood to keep my strength up but meeting mother's pushing prams or little children chasing each other across the street brings back the same feelings of regret.

What if I never have children? I am sorry to voice my concern so plainly to you, but you are the only female friend I have close within my age and I feel like I can discuss such things openly with you. I would hate to live my life childless; it would be too empty, too forlorn. And what would John think?

Poor John, he is as listless as I am. He seems so pale; his normal cheerful face and ready smile is now overshadowed by a haggard complexion and empty eyes. He has spread himself thin helping me, there is no denying it, but now that I am better, I want to do the same for him. He shrugs off my concern and just throws himself into his work as if spending more hours at the practice would help things.

It is rather straightforward for me to be asking, but might John and I come visit you for a fortnight or so? I will try to convince him to take a holiday, heaven knows he needs it, and you have such a lovely little cottage that staying with you would be a pleasure. I understand if you say no, John and I are not very exciting company and you have your own family to take care of, but I think getting away from things for awhile is just what we need.

With love,

Mary


	29. First Flowers of Spring

March 10, 1892

Holmes,

I write this letter to you from a small cottage belonging to one of Mary's dearest friends. Mary insisted that she needed to take a holiday to get away from the London smog and the house with all its painful memories and I could not deny her the need to escape. It was against my better judgment to let her travels so far, but we have been here three days and there is already marked improvement in her disposition so perhaps the trip was a good decision.

While Mary insists that the trip is for her benefit, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is for mine as well. She would never say it directly, but I believe her hopes in coming out here are to somehow boost my spirits. I have not been myself lately, and for that I am sorry. But the burden of the last little while has become increasingly hard to bear and to discuss emotions openly seems weak. I have put in extra hours at my practice, not because need demands it, but because I can spend time in my office alone to let the grief rise to the surface without anyone there to notice.

I refuse to let myself turn to drinking. The habit has always been particularly nasty to me and I want no part of it. That is what my poor brother Henry did. Do you know how he died, Holmes? Of course you so cleverly deduced that his alcoholic ways where what killed him, but there is more to his story than meets the eye. He died a drunkard and alone. Completely and utterly alone in his own selfish grief. I do not want to let myself fall that far, but part of the senselessness seems appealing in a morbidly disturbing way.

No, I cannot do it. What would become of Mary? I must be strong for her and not let my own selfish sentiments get in the way of the woman I love. I am a wretched man. God's mercy should not be given to one such as me. Is it wrong to still feel bitter? I do not know what else to feel. All other feelings have been washed away like antiseptic on a wound leaving nothing but the raw aching beneath to simmer in pain.

I am trying to accept that this is God's will, but I am finding it incredibly difficult. Why is life so hard? Why do trials seem to prevail while the happy times are but a moment? I want to understand, but at the same time, the truth seems intimidating. Humankind has always prided itself on being ruler over the earth, but when one steps back and takes a look at the larger image, our presence is but a small piece of the perspective. Who are we to invent machines, to conquer nations, to call ourselves great? God must be humored by our prideful foolishness. It is but the Tower of Babel all over again.

I have become rather philosophical as of late and I apologize. You would find my constant musings to be a nuisance if you were here. I should do best to simply shut my mouth and carry on. A dreamer's notions are just thoughts, not facts. And my mind is too preoccupied to search for answers to the impossible.

I shall have to inform you of how this little excursion carries on. It has been nothing but sunshine and picnics so far. I suppose I will put down the pen and wander outside in the fresh air. The crocuses are beginning to bloom.

Watson


	30. Word At Last

August 15, 1892

Holmes,

I apologize for my sudden lack of correspondence, life has suddenly taken a drastic turn for the better and I have been so caught up in the joy of day to day living that these therapeutic musings have slowly slipped my mind. I hope you do not think I have forgotten you, on the contrary, I think of you often; but it is not the same painful memories that haunt my mind like my letters were so filled with before. The thoughts have become more gentle in their wanderings and I am pleased to announce my grief has turned to one of fond remembrance.

The idea is bittersweet; this moving on in the day to day life, but necessary. How long could I have stood the agony of living in the past? You were the one to snap me out of my grief over that old Jezail bullet and I suppose I am just too thickheaded to realize the holes I dig myself into.

I hope you are not angry with me. While I am not one to believe in spirits or the visitations of the deceased, I do worry that you will be somewhat offended that I have ceased to bemoan your loss. Is that foolish of me? I hope you would think so. I know the frustrations you would feel towards those who only thought of themselves. Do not think me selfish, Holmes. I have lived too long in pain to shun the bit of joy I find myself in now.

If you will recall, my last letter left off with Mary and I out staying with some friends of hers and I am happy to say that we had a marvelous time. I heard Mary laugh for the first time in weeks since the baby's death and I even found myself amused at the carefree feelings that come with a much needed holiday. I have found time to continue publishing your cases and the extra money I receive from them being printed allowed me to purchase a small necklace for Mary. You should have seen her reaction when I fastened it around her neck. She was all smiles and insists on wearing it daily.

The most blessed news of all is that despite all odds, Mary is again expecting a child come December. The thought of a child at last is almost too good to be true and I find myself struggling to contain my excitement every time I imagine the little soul we shall raise together. We have taken every precaution to insure the child's safe arrival and Mary often calls me a, "Fussy old hen" for all the attention I most willingly dote on her. She may find my worry amusing, but I see no such pleasure in anxiety. I consider it my responsibility to care for my household and that is no laughing matter. Not when those I love have already seen such heartbreak.

There is a question I feel I must ask you, Holmes. Do you remember me asking you to ask God to be patient with me? I must ask you to tell Him to continue His long suffering in my behalf. God has already granted me happiness, but I do not feel worthy enough to receive it. Here am I, a stubborn fool who resents change and does not thank the Creator for His tender mercies. The horrid question of 'why?' still haunts my mind and I am beginning to realize that the answer to that question may not be kenned in this life. He, who is all knowing, knows the answer, and I must wait until the Judgment Day to find the truth behind the loss of our first child. It is but patience and hope that keeps me praying as I struggle for a renewal of my wavering faith. When I look back upon my life, I hope I do not find myself dreadfully dense in spirituality. It will make for a very dry heavenly reception.

As I close this letter, I am surprised at how good it feels to pour out my thoughts on paper. I regret not writing to you sooner; you always were an excellent listener. Until next time, old friend.

Watson


	31. Timid Relief

September 12, 1892

Somewhere in Southern France

Mycroft,

Thanks to your telegraph, I am now once again in Europe and happily devoting my time to the study of coal-tar derivatives. I do appreciate you informing me that one of my enemies has left the country. It is a small hope, but a blessed relief. God willing, I will be able to return to London within the year.

Now, I would like to say something I am not very willing to admit, but must confess no matter how deeply it pains me.

I'm sorry.

Not quite the apology you were expecting, now was it? Perhaps you were expecting something a little more profound, more heartfelt. Alas, my pride is still too bruised to bow to that, dear brother.

During my time in Lhassa, I had the glorious opportunity of visiting the head lama; a peculiar, but albeit, brilliant minded fellow. He gave me some excellent advice, and that is why I am apologizing to you. Leave it to me to take advice from a complete stranger. But his logic was sound and I suppose he was right in his words of asking forgiveness.

Please be patient with me, Mycroft. I know my childish behaviour has plagued you over the years and for that I am truly sorry. Your elder brother protection is something I would hate to live without.

Grateful to once again have a grasp on the langue and a newspaper in hand,

Sherlock


	32. Forgive and Forget

October 15, 1892

Sherlock,

I'm glad to see you have once again come to your senses. Yes, your apology was sarcastically succinct, but I will accept it nonetheless. As I recall, most of our childhood was built on you getting yourself into scrapes and me coming to your rescue. What kind of brother would I be to not forgive you once more?

It was somewhat hesitantly that I informed you of your enemy leaving London. I worried you would dash off in all haste for home only to have all our careful planning go to waste. But I see your travels have brought you some wisdom after all and I am grateful that you have stayed put in France for what has almost been a month. It must be quite hard to live so close to home and be unable to return. I hope the tobacco I have included in this letter is an acceptable consolation. Please use it for its intended purpose and not for some harebrained experiment. It cost me a pretty penny and I would hate to see it go to waste.

While I would like to imagine that your pining for home is based solely on missing me and British society, I am aware that you are very curious to hear news of your companions, mainly Doctor Watson and family. As I recall, you sent me sixteen telegrams since you first arrived in France and all of them in one way or another, have demanded information regarding the welfare of your former flat mate.

I am pleased to inform you that Doctor Watson is doing well and his practice is thriving nicely. I passed him on the street last Tuesday and hardly recognized the man. His pale face once again has color and that queer look has left his eyes. He spoke at a rapid pace about going out to find a certain book for Mary and how well his wife and child are doing. I couldn't help but feel happy for the fellow; he deserves a respectable life after the hell he's been put through.

In my rush to affirm the truth of your enemy leaving, I left out a slight detail that you most likely need to know.

Yes, Mrs. Watson is again expecting and so far all has gone well. Thank the Lord for that. The child is due sometime in December so given all goes right, you could have a godchild as a return present whenever it is safe for you in London.

Please don't let this news excite you into doing something drastic. Do not swim the Chanel and arrive soaking wet and dying of pneumonia on my doorstep just to validate the news. Stay where you are and behave.

Do not resent me for my tone, Sherlock. Sometimes I feel like father died too soon and I was forced into the role of provider at too young an age. I know you have often disliked me playing the fatherly figure and I apologize.

There, now that we have both confessed in some way or another, I suggest we put the sentimentality aside and carry on the best we can.

Until next time,

Mycroft


	33. New Friend

November 28, 1892

Holmes,

She is beautiful. Born two weeks early and perfect in every way. I wish you could see her. What a wonderful gift God has granted us. I am both flattered and terrified. How someone as simple as I could be a part of something as amazing as a new life is an emotion I cannot even begin to comprehend.

Of course, the role of godfather still stands. If you'll accept it, that is. I'm afraid the girl does not carry your namesake, something I'm sure you are grateful for, but I can tell already that she has her mother's peaceful disposition. If you two can bear each other, I will happily let you be the doting relative.

Mary is well. A blessing I am eternally grateful for. She is weak, and still recovering, but things went well. Secretly, I am quite pleased that she is still on bed rest. It gives me more time to play with the baby.

How I can play with a child barely a week old is surprisingly easier than I'd imagined. She doesn't do much. Mainly sleeping and crying. My word how she cries! I swear she was going to wake up the entire neighborhood. But still, she provides hours of amusement as I watch her eyes fail to focus and her legs kick angrily in frustration. I've never had much experience around infants. It gives me a rather odd sense of curiosity and I must say you would be curious too.

How can something so fragile grow up to be tall and strong? Surely that is her mother's nose? I pray she does not receive my stubbornness.

I watch her now as she sleeps quietly beside my desk. Every so often she twitches as I make a loud scratch with the pen. I think I'll put this aside for awhile and join her. Heaven knows we'll be up in a few hours anyway.

Watson


	34. Hated Words

December 8, 1892

John,

Part of me hopes you never find this letter-that I may recover and that there will be no need for these words. But I have a feeling, a sinking, dreading feeling that things will not work out the way I wish they would.

You have been so kind to me. From the day we first met on that glorious treasure hunt, I knew that you truly were the definition of a gentleman. I will forever love the way you whistle in the mornings and smile at me from your desk across the room. I smile now, thinking of your impish sense of humor and that mischievous glint in your eye as you mimic the behavior of the ladies from my sewing circle.

You have given me so much over the years. They have been happy times. I do not want them to end so soon, but I feel that something is coming. I am ill most days and pallor in mind the rest. Please look back on our time spent together with fondness of heart, and not bitterness for the shortness of their number.

These last few weeks with our darling little girl have been some of my most beloved. I cherish the way you dote on her and have a feeling that she will be spoiled rotten. There is so much a father can do for his children; please raise our daughter well. I have given this a lot of thought and I know it will be difficult to go at this alone; and if, by chance, you are ever ready, I give you my blessing to marry again. You deserve to love and be loved and I am torn with pain that it is not intended for me to be the recipient of your devotion.

You have such a loyal heart, John, and I understand it will be difficult for you to carry on. I have watched you struggle with the grief over the loss of your dear companion, Mr. Holmes, and I do not want you to waste away in anguish. Above all else, be strong for me, John. Be strong for our daughter. Do not shun her or treat her harshly. She has nothing to do with my health.

I know the notion of cruel treatment would never enter your head; you are going to be a loving and wonderful parent. (But I am quite firm in my belief that she will be spoiled terribly.) Do not do everything for her-let her grow up with grace and full of charity. Watch her impulses and encourage her every step of the way. Remember that she is part of you; and when that stubborn temper flashes, count to one and twenty and start over again with a gentle touch.

Do not be afraid to go to others for help. I know that child rearing is primarily a female role, and should you advertise for a governess or nanny, please seek one that is kind hearted and firm in a good upbringing.

I hope that this is something you never have to read, but just in case,

Your loving and forever

Mary


	35. Resentment

December 12, 1892

Holmes,

I've lost her. My Mary died last night; just slipped away while she was sleeping. She spent the majority of the night snuggled close and breathing slowly by my side. I had risen to check on the baby, and on my return, found she had drifted away into that state of eternal bliss that leaves the departed in heavenly joy and those left behind to mourn in earthly torment.

I could only stare at first. The moonlight cascading over her pale face and the chill of the floor seeping into my bare feet and slowly spreading up my spine in the realization that her eyes would never open to greet me good morning again.

She was so still. So calm. How could her countenance be so peaceful? I am numbed; too overcome by grief to let any sort of comfort find its way into my heart. Instead, anger builds. The dagger of rage is much easier felt than the soft hug of compassion.

How could I let this happen? How could God let this happen? I am furious to a degree that is both frightening and stubbornly justifiable. I do not feel able to forgive myself nor do I wish to pray for it. Perhaps later, when the funeral is done and over with and I am left to the complete isolation of a widower's life can I began to feel sorry for my emotion.

God cannot justify hate, and yet I am asking Him to pardon me awhile longer while I cope with this new tragedy. Surely He can understand my need for anguish.

But I cannot wallow forever in my grief; I have a child to care for. A half orphan now and just as beautiful as her mother. What will I do? How can I raise a child who will not have the faintest shadow of a memory of the woman who gave birth to her?

Somehow, the selfish thought that this would be easier if you had been here comes to mind. But you are dead and gone and Mary is dead and gone and I am left to nothing but my anger and my grief and the bitter taste of reality vile on my tongue.

I'm sorry, Holmes. I rant on. This isn't something you should read, or even be privy to. Let me go seek comfort elsewhere. The baby cries.

Watson


	36. Childlike Condolences

December 15, 1892

Missus Watson,

Me and Alfie was at your funeral today. Ye looked real pretty with yer hair all done fancy like. Ye looked like ye were sleeping.

Alfie cried. He tried to hide it, but I thought ye would like to know. I cried too. But I had to be strong for Alfie cuz he's only eight.

Doctor Watson looks very sad. Me and the lads will have to cheer him up some. He's never been the same since Mr. Holmes died, has he? I know ye made him happy. Now that yer gone, it looks like he has nothing else.

He has the baby I guess. And me. Ye was like the only mum I really had and I'm going to miss ye. I'll keep an eye on the doctor for ye and make sure he eats real good.

He was surprised to see me and Alfie today. I fancy I might have seen him smile a bit when he saw us. Mrs. Hudson was there. She made us behave like we don't know how to respect the dead. But we was good. I took me cap off and reminded Alfie to do it too.

I told Alfie to go on back to the other boys and hid behind a tombstone to watch after the people started leaving. Doctor Watson stayed for a long time. I think he thought he was all alone cuz he cried real loud like and knelt by yer casket. I felt bad for spying, and want to say I'm sorry. But I wanted to write ye a note and put it with ye before the ground closes up.

It's snowing again and almost dark so I have to write quick. The boys will be wondering where I am and come looking. I'm sorry I have to write with charcoal and that me spelling isn't very good. I'm learning the best I can and hope I can learn enough to be real smart one day. Thank ye for teaching me my letters. I practice whenever I can.

Thank ye for giving me scones from yer kitchen and mending my jacket when I tore it on the fence. I'm sorry that I threw rocks at yer cat and got mud on your sofa. Ye was real kind and I know yer going to be one of God's angels in heaven. Maybe ye can find me real parents for me if they're up there.

Lots of love,

Wiggins

P.S.

Ye don't really have to find me mum and dad. But if ye did, I would really appreciate it. I think me mum would like a friend like you.


	37. On The Wings of A Prayer

December 25, 1892

Holmes,

Writing to you has become the one constant in my life. It feels morbid that writing to my deceased friend is what keeps me from pulling the trigger on my own. I have not yet taken up the pen to write to Mary, and I feel that that is something I may not ever be able to do.

The child died two days ago.

She could not stand the strain of losing her mother, and so went to dwell with her. Or so I tell myself. In truth, it was probably I who killed her; carrying home the sickness and diseases of my practice in attempt to make a better living.

It is Christmas Day and London has been filled with the sounds of church bells and well wishers despite the bitter cold. Mrs. Hudson visited with a hamper of food and warm woolen mittens she made herself as a gift. I'm afraid my reception was rather gaunt eyed and empty as I have felt nothing but loneliness and isolation since Mary's death.

My anger towards God has given way to a never ending plea that He end my life and let me die that I may once again be reunited with those I love. I see no point in living if all I cherish has been taken from me. The joy of the season stares back at me in mocking irony.

I have become the iconic Scrooge in Mr. Dickens' metaphoric novel.

On the topic of the allegorical; hell is not the fiery pit we have all been warned of. It is a freezing, empty place where emotion is untouchable and hearts are frozen black in the ice of self loathing.

You would be so ashamed to see me. I am ashamed. I fear if something does not happen soon, I will be dragged down to the dark abyss of mental depression and never rise again.

Where is my Christmas miracle? Was not the Christ child born to comfort those in need of comfort and mourn with those who mourn? Did I reject the love of God when I cursed Him in my misery? The foolishness of mortality; we turn on backs on He who we need most when we ought to be on our knees in constant supplication.

I do not know if you recall me asking you to mediate between me and the Almighty, but dear fellow, I am at my lowest point and have nowhere else to turn.

Praying for guidance,

Watson


	38. Drink With Me

December 31, 1892

Sherlock,

I'm afraid I do not bring good news in the contents of this letter. Mary Watson and her second child have died leaving your companion, Doctor Watson, in a state of such shock and grief, that even I found myself wanting to break our bond of secrecy and comfort him in the telling of your existence.

He is as gaunt eyed and as thin as I imagine he must have been after being discharged from the military. Not even a month since his wife's passing and already the eligible women in society see him as an opportunity in marriage. I imagine he will be polite, if not oblivious to their advances. (My poor insight into the complexity of the female brain still remains _nihil novi _and your friend will have to fend for himself in that regard.)

He seems to be doing much of that lately. Ever the solitary soldier in the long and often heart wrenching march of life. I will continue to offer my support where I can, so you needn't worry. Mrs. Hudson is treating the man like kin in her ever affectionate care and I am sure shall do a much better job at tending to him than I ever could.

This reminds me that you requested a care package enclosing a Bunsen burner and half a dozen glass beakers. You are not destitute and can certainly purchase such items on your own.

But I have included enough money to purchase a drink or two at whatever club you've been loitering with during your stay and request you drink it in good health to bring in the New Year and also as a parting for the loss of Mrs. Watson.

I currently have a glass of port beside my desk and plan of consuming it at the commencement of this letter with both intentions in mind.

Cheers, brother mine, and do not let this news devour you; we must be strong in these days of trial. Work has always been the best remedy for grief.

Mycroft


	39. Bitter Taste

January 7, 1893

Mycroft,

A happy New Year indeed! You try to soothe me with your words of false bravado and heroic stiff upper lip but I will have none of it. Work being the remedy to grief, good heavens, brother-that is cynical even for you.

As to your glass of port, I say drink the whole bottle. Nothing will drown the grief I suffer through.

Watson, Mycroft? My dear, loyal Boswell? He does not deserve such heartache. I am the one who should be in the thrall of misfortune's gaze. I left him when he needed me most. It is something I am coming to find unforgiveable and I fear to return in case he shall never wish to speak to me again.

What do I do, Mycroft? I am at such a loss out here in France. Hiding away the days like a coward while my loved ones face the challenges of home alone. I miss London. I miss the lamp lighters in the evening and the fog rolling off the Thames. It is my worry that in feigning death, I have become an outcast to everything I hold dear.

I know you shall be quick to remind me not to be rash; and I shan't. My days of impulsively running home are past. Fear holds me back now. Fear that I shall have been forgotten. Unwanted. Perhaps I am best left in isolation, away from the picture where I cannot hurt Watson with my presence.

Mary Watson was a good sort. Not overly fond of me, but cautious, I think, and quick sighted to see the dangers of the friendship I held with her husband. In holding loyal to my former flat mate, I have not only destroyed our trust, but ruined his life forever.

Perhaps if had stayed away after their marriage, the grip of death would have stayed its hand.

I blame myself.

Not even the so called 'spare change' you included to buy a drink that costs as much as a Bunsen burner and half a dozen glass beakers you bribed me with will help me now.

Sherlock


	40. Crumpled

January 19, 1893

_Telegram to East Kensington ,London. 9143_

(Found discarded in trash bin.)

Watson-

I'm sorry.

Holmes.

_Return to Rue Laure Souchez 7230_


	41. Business As Usual

March 5, 1893

Holmes,

It has been several months since my last letter and it is with small pride that I inform you I am feeling better. It is due to the wonderful charity of friends and church that I find myself able to breathe again or even wish to find myself in society.

I have thrown myself into my practice with more zeal than usual, if not as a distraction and excuse to keep me from the countless throngs of women who seem to find a widower with some means something to pursue.

But I can't do that.

Not to Mary.

The house is quiet at nights. Anstruther, back from a family holiday in Brighton last week, brought me a small hound pup with the excuse that his family hadn't room to keep it.

It's a small, white and black spotted mutt and I protested vehemently that I couldn't care for such a thing, but you know Anstruther, and I couldn't very well leave the whelp on the streets. I told myself I would let it spend the night in the kitchen and then find a place for it come morning.

That was three days ago.

I've named him Angus. A constant reminder of my childhood days, but a happy memory nonetheless.

He has a patch over one eye and already promises to be a terrible rogue. I find myself growing fond over him, but I know you care not for such sentiments.

It is with some surprise that people have been turning to me to use your methods. I feel a terrible sham and a liar, if not a bit bumbling and foolish, but I take pleasure in running the courses again and feeling the prick of a puzzle tease at my mind.

I hope you do not mind me doing so….. working over such problems always brings you to memory with a bit of nostalgia, and I reassure myself that you would be charitable in sharing your ability with others, though of course none could do it well as you.

There have been no interest cases that I can share with you; I've taken to simple things that you would have found too trivial: finding lost items, missing persons… But if a case of some note does turn up, I will make sure to inform you of it.

Watson


	42. Particularly Low

April 4, 1893

Holmes,

It's a manic sort of grief I wander through these days. Brought on by small reminders and the scent of nostalgia that can leave me reeling for hours in the heady memories of Mary's smile….her touch on my skin.

But such sentiments are to be exchanged between lovers; husband and wife. Certainly not shared to a colleague and a deceased one at that-especially one of your nature. I can see your sarcastic smile in my mind's eye as I ramble about her eyes being that certain shade of blue.

Why not write a letter to Mary, you ask.

My dear Holmes, that is not something I can bring myself to do. Not yet anyhow. Perhaps with time it will be a comfort as writing to you is a balm, but not now. I feel it would bring a mockery to the vibrant, living letters we corresponded with once, now lying still; wrapped in a hair ribbon with a lavender sachet in her clothes drawer.

Today is her birthday. I tell myself that is the reason why I am so lowly in spirits. She would have been thirty five. A lovely age-still halfway between youth and middle aged maturity. She would have born it well.

I would have liked to have taken her out for the evening. Left the practice early and found a sitter for the baby. After dinner, we would stroll through the park with her hand on my arm and sit on a bench to whisper the secrets only couples divulge before heading home as the gas lamps were lit and to tea by the fireplace and reading in bed.

There is a certain necklace placed in a jeweler's window near my practice. I would have liked to have given it to her. I stare at it every morning before starting my day of work. The image of her wearing such a piece and dancing in my arms fills my mind with a light and laughter and makes the hours go by quickly.

I am very lonely, Holmes. As I am most days,

But today, of all days, strikes me particularly low.

Watson


	43. Plunge

April 10, 1894

Watson,

I have almost taken the narcotic again. The pull was strong-the seller persuasive. I purchased the solution almost without hesitation. My boredom here in France is reaching an impasse and I fear if nothing happens soon, I will find myself falling victim once again to the vise of artificial stimulants and the spiral that comes after.

I have not written to you in some time, dear fellow. My lethargy with existence has made writing even a nonsensical letter seem like far too much effort to struggle with. But now, with that needle lying within grasp, I feel the need to write a sort of half hearted confession that perhaps reminding myself of your disapproval for the drug will lessen the desire I have to lock away all care and slip away into that all embracing ecstasy.

I waste my days away lounging on the settee in my hotel room and then wailing the night hours on my violin like a stray cat on the roof tops. My studies of tobacco are dull. The crime scene uninteresting-my involvement should be there be any worth my investment, not allowed. I hang about the place like a pathetic drunkard with nothing to spur me on and no one to encourage me to do so.

Mycroft and I had a bit of a disagreement, and forgetting our maturity, have taken a vow of silence between us like two kitchen maids squabbling over who upset the tea service and neither one to take the blame. I have severed my last connection in this world.

The needle glints on the desk beside me. The window is open and the sun pours through; showing every curve, the shine of an unused plunger and the venom itself a dark shadow to blacken the spring day.

Perhaps this confession has become more of a narration. The main character of the story slipping on that precipice between hero's folly and a successful triumph to lead him safely home.

There would be a hush of anticipation in the air. The decision would weigh heavily.

His hand would reach longingly, fingers curl back in hesitation….

H-


	44. Drawing Together

April 27, 1894

_Telegram, Rue Laure Souchez 7230. South of France_

Murder of a Mr. Ronald Adair. STOP. You may find worth your interest. STOP. Colonel Moran a likely suspect. END STOP.

_Telegram sent from Diogenes Club, London. _


	45. Coming Home

April 28, 1894

_Telegram, Diogenes Club, London_

Have some matters to finish here. STOP. Expect me in four days. STOP. Coming home. END STOP.

_Telegram sent care of La Poste, Southern France._


	46. Back To Baker Street

May 2, 1893

Watson,

My hand is shaking so greatly, whether it be my excitement or the rocking of the boat I cannot tell-but I must write you this.

I am coming home, Watson. Back to the grime of London; the chaos of the streets. To my old lodgings and pipe. Home to the bohemian air of Baker Street and the mad rush of pursuing crime once again. I have missed it, old fellow. My soul has longed for it. In the words of Samuel Johnson, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life. Being away from London has made me tired. Has worn me down. I need it back.

I've missed you, Watson. London and its charm are hardly my main reasons for returning home. And I know that when our paths cross again, I will be my cold and aloof personality and for that I am sorry. I am hardly the type to spout nonsensical emotion about how melancholy I've been, but know that most of my excitement in returning home lies with meeting you again. I hope that is something I will be able to convey.

I am worried that you will be resentful towards me. Bitter that I did not tell you of my whereabouts and most cruel of all, for letting you believe me dead. I do not consider myself your friend. I feel as if I have used your good nature for my benefit.

But perhaps, it is your good nature that will the capacity to forgive an old fellow such as me. I can see the city line of London now. I feel the hum of energy and my pulse quicken as the scents of home wash out to me in the tide.

Now home to Baker Street. I understand Mycroft has kept my rooms in order. I find myself wickedly delighted in imagining the shock of dear Mrs. Hudson….

Holmes


	47. Hope In A New Day

May 3, 1893

Mary,

I know I told myself I would never write you the letters I so often penned to Holmes, but there is always room for change. I am so overcome with shock; I still can barely keep myself from grinning. I was positively giddy this morning as I woke on the settee once again in Baker Street.

Yes, Mary. I am at Baker Street once again. You see, Holmes and I were so tired from the events of the night previous, that I could hardly make it home to Kensington. Nor did I really wish to-we burnt the midnight oil reminiscing well until dawn and fell into old habits. It is a pleasing feeling-this content spirit that once again fills my frame.

But my dear, I see you are confused. I rushed over to tell you as soon as I could and I'm afraid my thoughts are a bit jumbled. Now as I sit here against your headstone and write this letter; the wind in my hair and the blooming of spring flowers pushing through the still frozen ground, I feel hope. Its buoyancy makes me feel young again.

Yesterday was a day I will always hold in my memory. I was returning home from my rounds and forgive my curiosity, went to have a look at the crowd caused by the death of Mr. Ronald Adair. I shan't give you the details of the tragedy: suffice to say it has all been dealt with neatly. I imagine you frown in disapproval and feel the need to reassure you that I am safe.

There was such a crush of people; I stumbled into an old book peddler who was in a terrible mood. Apologizing profusely and tired myself of the day's work, I returned home and had barely sat myself down when there was a knock at the door. The same book peddler announced himself upon me and offered his apologies for his behavior, and might he fill that empty spot on my shelf?

I turned to see to which spot he was referring to- I know we often talked of the volumes we would purchase to fill the space-and when I turned round, Sherlock Holmes was standing there before me.

Now, Mary. You know that I do not care for the supernatural, and that I myself am a man of relatively stable constitution. But with the surprise of it all, I must have fainted. For the next thing I knew, my collar was unfastened and Holmes was giving me a rather worried, yet pleased grin as he tried to get me to swallow a bit of brandy.

He has always had a flair for the dramatic.

The next hour was filled with such a story, I scarce can comprehend. It appears Holmes did not die that day in Switzerland. He has been living a life alone across Europe and has finally returned to London at last.

I admit I found myself rather stung at such a revelation. He confessed he had several times wished to write me, but his circumstances wouldn't allow it. But friends are friends after all, and we were soon getting on as usual; once again on the hunt of a case.

He looks thin, Mary. Older. These three long years have not done him well, and I suppose you could say the same for me. He was heartbroken at your death. In fact, he stands across from me; languid and bored as always, leaning against a tree and looking uncomfortable as I meet his gaze. I caught him scribbling a note this morning, and I suspect that is what he keeps hidden in his pocket. You two always did have a queer sort of friendship.

The bell chimes the hour, Mary. I fear it is time I must go. So many times over these past few years, I have cursed God and begged to know why it is I that must stay and live while those I love pass on. It has been a terrible burden and yet, I feel I have learnt something from it all. Life is about loving and letting go and moving on. While we may be parted from our dear ones, however long a time, we will always meet again; whether be it at the judgment bar of God, or again in this mortality as God has granted me with Holmes. Life does not truly end, Mary. And that is what I feel inside me. The hope of a resurrection in Christ and a love for the life I have so often contemplated in despair.

I will be careful with this second chance God has given me, and Holmes has given his word to do the same. Can't have you worrying over us, can we? I will check in often and tell you what sort of trouble we've gotten ourselves into. But for now, think of me pushing aside the darkness that has so often chained me and reaching for the light. And I will think of you, Mary. Everyday my guardian angel with blue eyes like the sea. Heaven is blessed to have you.

I love you Mary,

John

~Fin


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